Real Men Don't Zip Their Jackets
by Halfpenny
Summary: Yamcha isn't coping quite as well with the Separation as his friends had hoped. Mild slash.


**A/N/Di: **Written at two a.m. Perhaps it should be R; it does swear a bit. If DBZ does not belong to me, then it will soon; don't let copyrights tell you differently, eh?

Rain. 

He inhaled, callused finger tapping the end of the cigarette absently. It sparked meekly in the darkness, ash crumbling to the bedspread and swept away. Smoke curled toward the ceiling in ill-tempered ringlets, spreading to the corners and disappearing to the vents. He'd catch hell for it later, he knew; his neighbors disliked the scent almost as much as they disliked the moans at night, and the _thump thump thumps _as he kept time, breathing in and out as nature kept pace with yearning. The manager would call him in the morning.

Rain, though, nearly masking the empathetic curse from the bathroom. He opened the window to let it in, exhaling in what resembled relief when the cool droplets met heated cheeks; he tilted his head back, flicking the butt again. 

_"Yamcha, wait, it… I… oh, d-don't… I didn't come to…"_

The sheets were dirty, too. He'd have to clean the bedspread; his mommy had taught him little while she was alive, but she _had_ taught him to clean up when he was sticky. He'd throw them in the washing machine later, maybe. He turned his head slightly when the bathroom door opened, spilling light out onto the ragged carpet. A quiet click sent the room tumbling into darkness once more; a figure shuffled from the doorway, passing the bed silently on his way out. "Where are you going?" he asked quietly.

The figure paused. Everything about it was weary; the position of the head, the slump of the shoulders. "Out," it replied, and lifted its coat from the rack.

"It's raining."

"So I see." The jacket was slipped around the small frame. "You shouldn't be sitting by an open window. You'll catch pneumonia."

"You really shouldn't leave so soon, Kuririn," he said, though his voice was directed out the window. "I'm lonely already."

The second hand of the bedside clock brushed the outside of midnight. Kuririn glanced at it briefly and leaned against the doorframe, hand trailing listlessly on the zipper of his jacket. "Why is it," he said suddenly, watching the other man shift position, "that whenever I come over to comfort you you end up getting high and fucking the shit out of me?"

Yamcha directed another ring out the window. It dissipated instantly in the downpour. "And why is it," he countered mildly, "that you never once try to resist me? You're stronger than me, you know." A pause. "You could kill me."

The smaller man ducked his head. "It wouldn't have to be this way if—"

"If what?" The cigarette sputtered; Yamcha took a final drag and tossed it out the window with a lazy flick of his fingers. "If I faced up to facts? Look at me, Kuririn. What the hell do you want me to do?"

"At least stop making Puar transform," Kuririn said softly. "She'd do anything for you, but asking her to take that form twenty-four seven isn't fair, it—"

"How about you mind your own fucking business?" That form, That form. Fingers, restless without preoccupation, combed through unruly bangs. "Shit, I've got to get out of here…"

Kuririn watched as the older fighter scooted out over the windowsill and dangled his legs over the edge, heels clunking against the brick of the building. "Will you be okay?"

The rain ran in rivulets to the carpet beside the window. Yamcha turned, water streaming down the sides of his face and quivering on his chin, and smiled indolently. "Aren't I always?"

Two steps backward landed Kuririn outside the door. He hesitated, brow furrowing in consternation. "Just zip your jacket, all right? It's cold outside."

Fingers flicked in the air idly. Kuririn swallowed, whispered, "Take care," and retreated down the hallway, closing the door to the apartment behind him gently. 

Yamcha allowed himself to slide off the sill, floating to the ground three stories below. The lawn, cheerless and artificial, squished beneath his sole as he touched, and as if on cue the downpour intensified, driving down behind his collar and soaking to bone. He shrugged off his jacket, carelessly discarding it onto the grass.

_"He'll learn to cope, I'm sure he's been expecting this…"_

_"It wasn't as though we didn't see it coming…"_

He exhaled shortly and sat, back against the cold brick of the building. At least the mess was gone now, swiped away by rain. But the smoke still _lingered_, and his neighbors, his neighbors…

The rain hissed as a ki ball manifested itself between his thumb and forefinger. Yamcha stared at it, enchanted by the deep gold-white. 

_"I'm sure he's been expecting this…"_

Yamcha reversed his palm and settled it against his temple, closing his eyes. Shadows deepened as energy gathered in the darkness.

_"It wasn't as though we didn't see it coming…"_

_"…"_

_(fin)_


End file.
